The Castle Of Hape. Caves Of Fire And Ice. The Joining Of The Stone

And when he turned away at long last, turned back to where a fire had once blazed, the full moons had taken a different position in the clear sky, and the great, ancient trees that had stood on the cliff were gone. Only a few saplings could be seen beginning to push above the tall, still grass.

*

Jerthon’s battalion rode into Carriol in silence at dusk of the following day. The Hape was defeated. BroogArl was defeated, his Seers dead, the castle burned. The streets of Carriol were crowded, should have been wild with victory. There should have been shouting, singing. But all was silence. Carriol’s men and women lined the streets in quiet attention as the battalion rode in. For in spite of victory, Ramad was gone from them.

The vision of his disappearance had come clear to Tayba and to Skeelie, to the Seers who had stayed behind. Ram might return as abruptly as he had disappeared, but somehow the sense of his going seemed, to those Seers who had viewed it, one of terrible finality.

Jerthon knew that Tayba was not among the crowd, that she stood alone in the tower, in the solitude of her room—reaching out in vain toward Ram, across time she could not manipulate. Reaching out, and sorrowing, unable to touch him.

Had Ram been sucked into Time by powers yet unimagined? Or had he only, mourning for Telien, thrown himself into that maelstrom in search of her? Even with the vision of his going that had come so clear to them, the sense of Ram’s feelings was not clear. All had happened too fast: an instant when Ram faced Anchorstar, an instant when it seemed he clung to Telien somewhere, and then he was gone.

Jerthon dismounted, left his horse to another to care for, and went up into the tower. Tayba would need him. She would be drawn tight inside herself and short with him in her grief over Ram; but she would need him now. He could not think what to say to her. But that did not matter.

Gone. Ram gone. He shook his head, trying to drive out the nightmare, but it would not go. Gone into Time. Had Ram found Telien in some realm so remote from this time that one could hardly imagine it? And did Telien have a shard of the stone, could the two of them, perhaps, with the power of the stone, yet return to their own time?

Or would they, foolish, young—valiant—try to seek out the rest of the stones across a warping vastness of Time that no man could truly comprehend? He came up the third flight and stood before Tayba’s door, knew she was pacing. He knocked, heard her answer with muffled annoyance.

He found Tayba pacing, and Skeelie there, worn from battle, from her swift journey home, kneeling before an old chest rummaging, muttering, her shoulders hunched beneath stained fighting leathers, her face, when she turned to look at him, pale with loess dust from the ride out of the north, her eyes haunted with the knowledge of Ram’s loss. She said nothing, would not meet his eyes, was strung tight with the agony of her loss—loss to Time as well as to Telien. At last she pulled out a cloak of heavy wool from the chest, closed the lid, and sat back on her heels, lowering her eyes before him, then looking up at him suddenly and defiantly. “I am going there. I am going into the mountains, and please don’t argue. To the caves of Owdneet first, to find runes I think can . . . can lead me. Can take me into Time, can . . . I will not rest until I have done this.” And, seeing his scowl, “Please don’t argue, Jerthon.”

He looked at the two of them. Had Tayba encouraged Skeelie in this? No, he thought not. Skeelie’s need was plain. Despite Ram’s love for Telien, she would save him.

“What makes you think that in the caves—that you can find anything to help you?”

“I . . . when Ram and I were in the great grotto, when we were children, we . . . Fawdref showed us with his thoughts that there were caves there that held the old tablets and runes of the ancient city. There were powers written there, Jerthon. Powers lost to us.”

“But powers of the gods, Skeelie. You can’t . . .” He knew he argued uselessly. He would keep her here if he could, and knew she would not stay.

“Powers any Seer can use, Jerthon. If one is willing to seek them, willing to try them, to risk . . .”

“Yes. To risk death. Or worse than death.”

She stared at him, defying him, her thin face drawn, her dark eyes large with anguish, as she had looked so often as a child. “You know I must go, and arguing only makes it harder.” She rose to stand before him, hugged him suddenly in a terrible embrace, clung to him for a long moment. Hugged Tayba with more tenderness, then fled, turning at the door only to say, “I will come to you when I am ready to leave. Meanwhile—take care of her, Jerthon. Care gently for one another.”

*